


little bird

by aikanaro



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Atonement - Freeform, But You Can Read It Platonically, Child In Danger, Description of Injuries, Forgiveness, Gen, Ghosts, Implied Past Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Mentioned Kidnap Dads, Third Kinslaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28763673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aikanaro/pseuds/aikanaro
Summary: “Who are you?” he asked the stranger.The injured man did not answer.“It is a long way to fall, little bird,” he said simply, “And lonely at the bottom.”-In which Maeglin remains in Arda beyond his death and a stranger has been with Elrond since the very beginning.
Comments: 49
Kudos: 126





	little bird

Elrond was five years old the first time he could remember seeing the injured man. 

He had really not meant to go so near the edge of the balcony, it was only that there were climbing roses that grew up the wall below and he wanted to pick some for his mother. Naneth loved flowers and he thought (he _hoped_ ) perhaps she might smile if he could bring her one. She always seemed so sad. Most adults seemed that way, though, and he thought perhaps being grown up simply did that to you. 

Still, flowers could not hurt, and so it was in this quest that he went right up to the railing and tried to reach down to the trellis that sat against the stone. Through the gap in the balustrade he could see the roses, beautiful and yellow against the pale stone and wood bleached white by the sea air. Frustratingly, however, he found that his arm was not long enough to grasp even the topmost one no matter what he tried.

He thought for a second to seek help in Elros, who sat idly nearby playing, but Elros’ arms were sure to be the same length as his own. He frowned. What was he to do?

The gaps were not so narrow, he thought, but perhaps if he squished himself he might be able to slip to the other side. There was a small ledge there that overlooked the courtyard below and he would be able to stand on it and reach down to the flowers. 

The only problem was that he and Elros were expressly _not_ allowed to climb on the balustrade or, indeed, anywhere else on the balcony. Naneth and Athaenis, their nurse, had both been very clear about that. He looked around in uncertainty. Naneth was not here at the moment and Athaenis was engrossed in a book where she sat on a chaise in the doorway. If he were quick, he thought, she might not see him. 

After taking one more nervous glance about him, he breathed in, sucking his belly in very small, and pushed himself through the space between the rails. 

At first, all seemed well. He stepped out onto the little ledge on the far side and looked out over the sea. When he saw the sheer drop below him, however, his stomach took a funny turn. _He should go back_. He should crawl back through to the other side and go play with Elros and apologize to Athaenis for having broken the rules. But… he could see the roses just below him on the trellis...and Naneth would be so happy to have a rose… he wanted her to be happy. 

He took another unsteady breath in and reached down. 

It was there that the trouble began. Tilting himself forward made his body lurch strangely and he wobbled on the edge of his feet, beginning to panic. On shaking knees, he tried to right himself, but found it useless. 

By the time Elrond managed to scream, he was already falling. There was a moment of horrific, dreadful stillness where he felt as though he floated, staring down at the ground that rushed up to meet him. 

A terrified cry fell from his small mouth as a vision flashed behind his eyes - he could see a little boy laying face down on the pavers, his dark blood all about him staining the white stone. The terror mounted as he realized the little boy was _him_ , moments from now. 

_No, no please, he did not want this! It was not right, he did not want to die! It was not time yet! He only wanted a rose for Naneth!_

Instead of the impact of the ground below, Elrond abruptly felt hands gripping his sides and the subtle pressure of being held close to a much larger person’s chest. 

It should be impossible, but nonetheless, he felt his fall slow until all that he could feel was the strong arms about him. He was no longer falling, but simply being held. 

He realized that in his fear his eyes had been screwed shut and he opened them slowly after a moment to find that whoever held him was now simply standing on the ground below, with him pressed close to their broad chest. But how could anyone have caught him! It was as though he had never fallen at all...

Confused, he turned to look at the person who held him. 

He started at the sight. What he saw was not a person at all, but rather the mere memory of one - a wisp of smoke where a flame had once been.

Elrond felt that he had to strain oddly to see this person, as though his eyes did not quite want to perceive what lay before them.

It was like looking through muddy water, like somehow the very air itself obscured the person, but as he focused, he could begin to see them. 

It was a young elf that held him. He was brown skinned and handsome with black hair braided back from his angular face and in memory and shadow he was clad in a midnight blue. 

And - oh, but the elf was hurt! Had he fallen in Elrond’s place? It was hard to see him clearly as he did not truly have a _body_ as Elrond did but there were cuts and bruises all over him and a great wound at one side as though something had pierced him through.

If he was in pain, however, he gave no sign. The unknown man simply bent forward and sat Elrond down softly on the ground. 

“Who are you?” he asked the stranger.

The injured man did not answer. 

“It is a long way to fall, little bird,” he said simply, “And lonely at the bottom.”

Before Elrond could ask what this meant, the not-elf simply disappeared. It was as though in a single instant the smoke that made up his form had dispersed into the salty air and left no trace.

After that there was shouting and commotion as Athaenis reacted to the sound of his scream and came running to his aid, looking down at him from the edge of the balcony in terror.

Strangely, Elrond felt that time had stilled as the injured man rescued him, and now the world resumed in all its noise and activity. Athaenis was crying down to him, trying to figure out if he was hurt and if not _how_ , Elros was crying in distress, and Elrond had no idea what to tell them.

All this Elrond could later recall with little clarity, but for one detail that remained across the ages. 

That evening, when he was finally put to bed, he found something beneath his pillow: there, against the pale sheet, was a yellow rose.

Elrond was sure that he knew who had put it there.

—

The next time Elrond saw the injured man, Sirion was burning. He was sitting on his nursery floor, clinging to Elros tightly and wondering if they ought to run away. Some time ago Athaenis had told them not to come out until she came back for them, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Through their window, they could see thick smoke billowing outside. Sound spilled into the room from everywhere - noises Elrond would know later to have been the groans of falling buildings, of people screaming, and steel swords singing against each other. At the time, however, it had only been a meaningless cacophony. It pressed in on all sides, bearing down on his little body until he wished he could be smaller. He wanted to fold himself up like a scrap of paper so that he might be put aside and forgotten, safe in one of his tutor’s desk drawers where no one would look.

It was then that the man from before appeared. Much as before, Elrond felt that even when he looked directly at him he could not quite see him.

“Who are you?” Elros squeaked, scrambling away from the sight. 

As before, the man did not answer. 

Elrond turned to his trembling brother. “It’s okay” he told him, “He’s not one of the bad men.”

“What’s wrong with him then?” Elros whispered frantically, looking not at all reassured.

Elrond had no answer. What _was_ wrong with him? In the bare moments that Elrond felt he could see the man’s face and form properly without some distortion, it seemed that he was hurt badly, blood and dirt staining his face and tunic, but the man never behaved as though it hurt.

“Remember when I slipped from our balcony?” Elrond whispered back finally. 

Elros nodded. 

“He caught me. That is why I was alright. I think… I think he fell instead of me, Ro. And now he is hurt.”

An uncertain look passed over Elros’ face as he looked between the man and Elrond, still pressing himself against the wall in his fright. 

Whatever he might have said, however, was interrupted by the sudden commotion outside. Though there had been noise before, it was nothing to this. Elrond thought his body must be rattling at the impact of the sound against him. He could not see what was happening, but the noise was metallic and angry and there were people shouting and crying out and awful, bloody sounds and — the bad men must be here. They must have found them. But where was Athaenis? Where was their tutor? Where was Naneth? He leaned harder into Elros’ side and covered his ears with his hands.

The strange, injured man said nothing to soothe them, but he moved, flitting from one place to the next more than really walking as a person should, so that he stood by the door. Nearly as soon as he did so, it burst open. 

Elrond jumped in terror and then felt his eyes go impossibly wide. 

Standing in the doorway was the tallest elf Elrond had ever seen. He was so imposing that he hardly knew where to look even in fear. The elf wore glinting black armor with a great tarnished star emblazoned on his chest. In one hand, he carried a sword as long as Elrond’s whole body, while his other arm merely ended at his wrist. His hair was short, a mere shock of red about his scarred face. This could only be _Maedhros_ , the dread murderer adults talked about in hushed tones when they thought he and Elros could not hear.

He whimpered.

Maedhros lowered the sword he carried and took one step into the room, only to be cut off. The wraith-man, barely an apparition though he was, stood in the great elf’s way. 

“You will not harm them,” he said, his voice ringing with power, “I will not let you.”

How peculiar that their unknown protector was speaking Quenya. 

Maedhros paused and squinted at the figure in confusion as though he too struggled to see him as Elrond did. In another second, though, a choked sort of gasp came out of his chest.

Maedhros’ marred face shifted from confusion to utter torment as he stared into the man’s flickering, unseeable visage. Elrond was not sure what was happening. Apart from his wounds, there seemed nothing unpleasant in the man’s face to him, but for Maedhros it was as though some torture lay in that face, in those sharp features and dark braids.

“Findekáno…,” he rasped as his sword clattered the ground.

“He is not here,” the wraith-man answered, “He is dead.”

Maedhros did not seem to hear. He only stumbled forward, hand outstretched as though to grasp him.

“ _Finno_!” he cried as he neared him.

The apparition was alarmed by this and tried to move away. He was not quite quick enough, however, and Maedhros’ hand reached him only to pass straight through him like pale smoke.

“You cannot touch me, Maedhros,” the man said, “Do not waste your time trying.”

A noise of terrible pain, a noise like pleading, a noise like _dying_ , came from Maedhros. Somehow, the elf that had made Elrond cower just moments ago seemed more sad than terrible.

“I am not Fingon,” the man continued.

“Fingon…”

“Fingon is gone. But you are here. And you will not hurt these boys, do you understand? They are innocent. And stars know you are as guilty and damned as me, lord, but there is something left of you.” 

For the first time, Maedhros looked down at Elrond and Elros. His burning eyes still seemed dazed and unseeing, but Elrond felt no malice in them. He just looked _so_ sad. Did he have a brother like Elros to hold him when he cried? Elrond hoped so.

“Elwing’s sons,” Maedhros said softly, blinking as though trying to remind himself where he was.

The apparition was not distracted.

“Your word, Maedhros!”

Maedhros hesitated.

“Your word you will let no harm come to them!”

“I will kill no child,” Maedhros replied finally, “I did not come here meaning to. I am not an Orc yet.” 

Elros started to weep beside him and Elrond knew why. This elf, however bad and cruel he was, did not mean to kill them. _They were not going to die today. It was not time yet._

The apparition seemed satisfied. As he had done that day by the balcony, he vanished the moment the danger seemed to have passed. Elrond and Elros remained pressed against the wall and made no move to get closer to their captor, but it didn’t matter. A look of utter desolation had come over him, as though he were beyond even tears, and he did not look at them.

That was how Maglor had found them, and how the next chapter had begun.

-

Over the years, Elrond saw the apparition of the wounded man many more times. Any time he found himself in great danger or turmoil, a blur of a person would come to him, an unknown guard. Arrows seemed always to miss him on the battlefield, swords always just a half second ill-timed. At Elros’ funeral, an unknown man clad in blue had stood at Elrond’s side. For four thousand years, through war and horror and loss, a vigilant keeper stood guard.

He knew that Men would call the person at his side a ghost. In the terms of the Quendi, he suspected that they were merely the _fëa_ of an elf who had refused Mandos. Why the spirit had chosen to make themself his personal guardian, he had no idea. He did not even know their name for sure, though he had suspicions. There was only one way to find out if he was right.

And so it was that one day, alone in his study, Elrond called out into thin air. 

“ _Maeglin!”_ he said loudly.

There was no immediate reply, but the chair opposite of his shifted abruptly as though someone had startled in it.

“I know that you are here,” Elrond continued, “You always are.”

A short silence followed. From the shadows, a familiar figure stepped. 

“How do you know my name?” Maeglin breathed, looking alarmed.

“I have had several millennia to figure it out,” Elrond grinned, delighted to have been right, “And it was not all that hard. I felt you would be someone who had reason to conceal your name, for you have never once told it to me in all these years. And then there was that Maedhros mistook you for Fingon that day in Sirion. You appeared less clearly to me then, and I suspect even less so to him who had not the benefit of Maia blood, but still there was enough of a resemblance in your face and fëa to confuse him who knew Fingon better than any other. You share much of your likeness with Ereinion also, and you have ever seemed to fear that I would fall from some great height. The guess was not so hard.”

Elrond had not known it was possible for unhoused _fëar_ to look uncomfortable, but Maeglin suddenly did. “If you have known who I am, why do you not send me away?”

“What would become of you if I did?” said Elrond.

“I don’t know,” Maeglin replied too quickly, “But I will go if you ask me to. I do not wish to stalk where I am unwanted.”

Elrond considered him for a moment, pursing his lips. “If you were unwanted I would surely have made such clear to you by now. What I truly want to know, Maeglin, is _why_.”

Maeglin looked down at his hands. It was a gesture that made him look so strangely _alive_. When Elrond looked at him it was still apparent that what he saw was not quite an elf in flesh and blood, but over the years he had come to look less ghastly, the appearance of his many grievous wounds had faded and when the light caught his fëa right Elrond could imagine what it might’ve been like to meet Maeglin of Gondolin in bygone days.

“You shall need to be more specific,” he ground out, “For there is much you could mean by that.”

Elrond sighed. “I don’t care about Gondolin. That is...I do. I care that lives were lost there. But it would be of no use in the world for me to interrogate you about what truly happened to you, about why you did what you did. If you wish to speak of it, I will hear, but I do not care to be the one to pass judgement about it.”

“Why shouldn’t you? A lecherous traitor who sought to murder your first father stands before you. Why should you not condemn me?”

Elrond raised an eyebrow. In so many years of constant companionship they had rarely spoken, and he had not quite realized Maeglin had such a flair for the dramatic. The venom, he thought, was more hurt than harsh, however. 

“Firstly, there are parts of that story that I do not believe have been told as they truly occurred. I was not born, obviously, but...it has always seemed to me, as a lore-master, that the story that comes down to me was one written by a grieving and desperate people who desired someone to blame for their pain. Parts of it are undoubtedly true, but I do not know which and so do not base my opinions on it. However, even if it is all true, old friend, it would still gain me nothing to condemn you and cast you out. If you were an evil man, cracked since your very conception because of who sired you and guilty of every thinkable crime, I would still not bother with condemnation. The only justification to spit at you and cast you away now would be if it would prevent further harm, or because doing harm is hateful to me. Neither of these apply. For you have spent these four thousand years my constant companion and injured not a soul. So, in that case, I would not stand to protect anyone from you for you are no threat. If I were to rake you over the coals for what you did and send you away to suffer alone, I would not succeed in bringing back any life lost by your hand or in raising Ondolindë from the sea. I would, however, succeed in doing a great deal of damage to you, I suspect. So, I could not claim to hate doing harm at all if I did that. On the contrary, it would mean continued harm, for I would be telling you that you deserve to suffer for the suffering you have caused. I do not believe that and I will not. No creature could live my life and not know that suffering begets more suffering and healing is its only end. Vengeance is a pit that leads nowhere, Maeglin Lómion, you above all should know it.”

At this, Maeglin looked utterly wrong-footed at this speech and he stared at Elrond with eyes that were somehow piercing even with no physical form. His fëa flickered unusually and Elrond did not think he imagined it was with emotion. There was a long pause.

“So,” Elrond continued eventually, “I do not _care_ about Gondolin.”

“What then…,” Maeglin replied unsteadily, “What do you wish to know then?”

“I wish to know why you have protected me all these years. And Elros, too, while he lived. I would have died as a boy from that fall if not for you and you have been at my side ever since. I do not understand. Why do you linger here when you might rest in the Halls instead?”

Maeglin flickered again.

“Because… I loved my nephew. I loved Eärendil and because of me he knew what it was to suffer and fear as a little boy, just as I had. Originally, I had meant to wander the world away from all living things, to be alone forever. But then Eärendil had little boys of his own while he was yet young and I thought that…I could not protect myself from a childhood of horror, and I had brought such a thing on him too. But I would get it right this time. I could keep these boys from any hurt or harm. They could grow up free of that,” Maeglin winced, “That went swimmingly, as you are aware.”

“Not by any fault of yours. You did as you had meant to do, guarded us in the face of all things. Maedhros and Maglor grew to be as fathers to me as you well know, but I have not forgotten how it began. That you had no more idea than I did if they were to be monstrous captors. I have not forgotten that it was you that stood between me and Maedhros, mad in his grief. Many lesser people would have cowered.”

Maeglin ignored the praise. “Still… it was not what I had intended. I never wanted to be seen by you and Elros except in moments of most terrible need, for you to grow up happily. I owed Eärendil that. I owed Idril that.”

Elrond tapped his fingers idly on the table, considering this. “So it was a desire to atone, then, that has driven you to watch over me instead of resting?”

“In a sense, yes, but also because…,” Maeglin’s voice trailed off, the low blue of his spirit burning bright enough that Elrond squinted.

“Because?”

“...Because I wished someone had been there to watch over _me_. My mother did more than could be asked of anyone, but I always wished someone had been there to stay my father’s bitterness and anger, for her as well as me. At first I thought I was going to try to make up for all that I had taken from Eärendil somehow, but when I looked on you and your brother, I only saw myself. Maybe it is selfish in that way. You were not in the circumstance I had been, of course, but still I saw the little boy I could remember being and I could not stand the idea of no one being there to help you. So I watched from the shadows. I always leave you to your privacy, of course, but I do not go far lest danger find you.”

Elrond nodded. Maeglin’s presence was by now familiar to him and it disturbed him not at all to know that he was near even when invisible. He had already sensed it.

“Thank you,” he told him, though he felt the words to be utterly inadequate. What did one say to someone who had spared them from death a hundred times over? 

Maeglin’s brow furrowed. “I have not done this to earn your thanks.”

 _No,_ _indeed,_ Elrond thought, _for you try to convince me that even your devotion has been selfish and that I should hate it in you._

“I did not think you did, for I do not think you believe yourself deserving of thanks nor affection of any kind. That does not mean I will not give them. You are often a desolate man, old friend, but because you choose to be.”

“How else can I be?” Maeglin replied skeptically, “I made this bed long ago and now for me is to lie in it.”

Elrond considered him for a moment, choosing his words carefully.

“You could heed Námo’s call.”

At this Maeglin became suddenly more transparent, and Elrond thought the room grew physically colder. “If it is your wish that I leave you, you need only have said.”

“No, do not twist my words into tools with which to harm yourself. I am not sending you away in rejection. I am asking you to seek those who can help you. You have healed in some slow way here with me in all these years, but you scarcely speak and I sense that you ache in the absence of those whom you love. It has been an age. I cannot make you seek the Halls, but I can tell you that you deserve to rest. You do not have to walk this world forever all but alone.”

“What difference does it make in the end,” Maeglin said, his voice nothing more than a whisper upon the air, “I would be alone there also. Those that I love do not want to see me.”

“How do you know?” Elrond countered.

“Why would they? After all I have done, why in Arda would anyone want to see me?”

 _Ah. So there is the heart of_ _it,_ Elrond thought.

“Because no creature’s heart is a set of scales. We do not weigh the souls of those we love and then determine by some calculation if they are worthy of our love. Deep love, unconditional love, does not know that kind of coldness. Do you truly believe anything could turn the heart of a mother who leapt to death to spare her son away from him?”

“Whether my mother loves me or not, surely she cannot forget what I have done.”

“Love does not mean forgetting, nor the absence of any accountability. I have not forgotten what Maedhros and Maglor did, despite what some would say of me. I know and remember it well. My love of them is not an absolution of what they did, but rather the abiding belief that they still deserve to be loved despite it. You deserve the same, Maeglin. You have healed much in your many years wandering here, but what more you need will be found with your family.”

The problem, Elrond felt, was that Maeglin did not believe himself worthy of anyone’s forgiveness and so assumed they would reject him because that was the manner in which he would treat himself. That, he suspected, was Maeglin’s greatest fear. To be rejected once more, cast out even in death, was what he ran from. They could not deny him their love if he never allowed himself to ask for it.

Maeglin, for his part, said nothing. His form remained before Elrond’s eyes, but he seemed more difficult to see as though his distress made it harder to remain. 

“I am not ready yet,” Maeglin said at last, his voice wavering, “I am not ready to face them.”

Elrond raised an eyebrow and thought to press him, but Maeglin interrupted this and said, “I am not ignoring your advice, but I need to think on this. I accept what I need to do, but I need to search myself for the strength to do it.”

This Elrond understood. In that case, he would not force Maeglin further. If he tarried too long, perhaps, but he would confront that issue when it arose. For now this was enough. He reached out toward his companion of so many years and, to his surprise, found that his hand rested solidly on Maeglin's arm. Maeglin had to be _choosing_ to allow him that, that could be the only reason for it. 

“Whatever you do,” Elrond told him, “Do not leave without saying goodbye. Promise me, Uncle.”

He had never used the endearment before, but it felt right. For the first time in his life, Elrond thought he could see that Maeglin was _smiling_. It was a wry sort of thing, tenuous and almost uncertain, but it was there nonetheless.

“I would not dream of it, little bird,” Maeglin told him, and then promptly flitted out of sight. 

Elrond knew he was nearby, however, as he always did. The knowledge was ever a comfort.


End file.
